


Improbable, Not Impossible

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he'd taken a bet on who of his acquaintance would figure out he was still alive and not quite able to keep himself from working on cases – He would have lost, because Anderson would have been the last person he would have thought of. Spoilers for the mini-episode "Many Happy Returns".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable, Not Impossible

Sherlock Holmes had never been, and would never be, a betting man.

But if he had been, and if he’d taken a bet on who of his acquaintance would figure out he was still alive and not quite able to keep himself from working on cases –

He would have lost, because Anderson would have been the last person he would have thought of.

In truth, he didn’t expect anyone to find out. He hadn’t even expected anyone to consider the possibility, to – to care enough to look for him. He knew John and Greg were convinced that he was dead; he knew Mycroft was too. Molly was aware he had survived because he had needed her help, but she had never tried to contact him and was, as far as he could tell, patiently waiting for his return.

He kept himself informed about what happened in the city, of course.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have; every time he read an article about Sherlock Holmes the fraud or another interview by Henry Knight who kept defending him, or when he heard about cases that had gone unsolved – undetected, even, he really would have to speak with Lestrade when he got back, three unnoticed murders in one year wouldn’t do – it felt like he had left all over again, although he had been gone for almost two years now.

And yet, here he was on Christmas Day, once more in front of his laptop, reading John’s latest blog entry.

He told himself that he was glad that the doctor seemed to have moved on, that he was building a new life. It was what a normal person would have felt.

He shook his head and started tracking down the last part of Moriarty’s web.

Only to find that he would have to go out and find physical evidence, and that he couldn’t do that today of all days because a stranger hanging around an office building on Christmas Day would draw attention. It was the day of all days where people decided not to be completely oblivious to their neighbour.

He sighed and stood up.

It had started to snow. John had always loved the snow...

He told himself that giving in to sentiment would lead to nothing.

And yet he found himself in front of his laptop again, googling himself once more (he could almost hear Mycroft telling him that he was just as narcissistic as he’d always been).

He couldn’t say why he kept doing it. He wasn’t waiting for a sign, evidence that one of his – friends had found out the truth, was waiting for him. He wasn’t.

Until now, he had never paid attention to several homepages dedicated to his memory; most of them were run by people who were simply bored and had liked to read John’s blog. Naturally, there were a few who insisted he was still alive, but even they didn’t truly believe it, Sherlock was certain. They had no proof, and no one would bother to actually look for –

And then his eyes fell on one of the many entries.

The page was simply titled “Sherlock Holmes Is Alive”, and he remembered vaguely scrolling over it before.

The only reason he clicked on it – the reason that had him surprised, him, who hadn’t been surprised since he met an ex-army doctor who moved in with him twenty-four hours later – was that his eye caught the administrator of the page and apparently president of the group or whatever they chose to call themselves.

Anderson.

He hadn’t thought of him in almost two years, although he knew it had been him and Donovan who had gone to the Chief Superintendent. He hadn’t blamed them for it. If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else.

Still, the forensic tech had always been annoying, hadn’t wanted to work with him, when all Sherlock would have done was to make his work easier.

In a way, Anderson had made him angrier than most of the other idiots he met, for one simple reason: The man wasn’t an idiot when it came to his work. Begrudgingly, Sherlock had always accepted that he knew what he was doing (he wasn’t as good as the consulting detective himself, of course) and would have made a tolerable assistant if he hadn’t been so adamant about rules or proved so resistant to advice.

Sherlock clicked on the link. There was still the chance (although he was highly improbable) that this was another Anderson, and that the forensic tech he knew was still telling everyone that Sherlock Holmes had been nothing but a fraud.

It was him.

There were pictures on this website (and Sherlock had once again to consider how much time had gone by since he had last been in London when he saw the man’s beard) and there could be no doubt that it was indeed Anderson who was running the “Sherlock Holmes Is Alive” website.

And more than that.

As could be expected, there was a curriculum vitae of Anderson on the site, and –

_Forensic Technician at New Scotland Yard, 1995-2012_

Other than that –

There was nothing about a new job.

Had Anderson given up –

It seemed so.

Sherlock swallowed.

The one man he would never have thought capable of it had given up his job because –

Because he felt guilty.

Before Moriarty, Sherlock would have thought he wanted to be better than him once again. That he had chosen to donate his life to that one end.

But now –

Now, after he had faked his death to save his friends, now that he had spent two years hiding and fighting and occasionally solving real cases because he couldn’t help himself –

He understood why.

Guilt.

Anderson was feeling guilty.

And it was this guilt that had prompted his belief in Sherlock, had caused him to quit his job and do his research.

Not only was he claiming that Sherlock had been right about the cases he had solved with Lestrade, but there was also a page dedicated to the “evidence”, as he called it, for the consulting detective’s survival.

He had overlooked a few of the cases Sherlock had solved in the last two years, naturally, but he had collected most of them – had even given them titles, like John used to – and not only that – he had looked at the cases in London too, and –

He had actually figured out that Lestrade got the town house case wrong.

Almost against his will, Sherlock was impressed.

With his skills, it wasn’t difficult to find out that Anderson hadn’t worked since he had quit his job (or rather, been fired) and that he didn’t have much money. Barely enough to afford London, in fact.

He turned his head to look out of the dirty window of his cheap motel.

It was still snowing.

It was Christmas Day.

And Anderson had just given him the one gift he would have asked for. Someone believing in him and his survival, someone he would be sure would welcome him back. Even if he was only relieved that he wasn’t guilty of another man’s death.

He made a decision.

“Do you even know what you are doing to yourself?”

The words of his ex-wife still rang in his head, hours after they had been spoken. They had remained friends, although he had eventually told her about his affair with Sally Donovan after she had left him.

Ironically, it was his obsession with Sherlock Holmes that had caused her to leave him.

But Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be dead.

He would be the first to admit that in the beginning, it had been guilt and remorse that had made him look at cases all over the World, a hopeless endeavour to look for the one man he knew would never be found.

But he found him.

Or at least, he found his traces.

It wasn’t like he had anything else to hold on to. He and Sally had drifted further and further apart; his marriage barely deserved the name; and his colleagues couldn’t bear to look at him.

So his nights were dedicated to his research, looking through countless news reports, until –

He stumbled upon the Mystery of the Paris Opera.

Two tenors had been killed in a week, and the police had arrested the principal conductor. Claiming that what had led to his arrest was that the Inspector had noticed that, on the day of the murder, he had been wearing a tie instead of his usual bowtie.

There was only one person in the World who would have noticed such a detail and deduced what it meant.

And this person was certainly not a French Inspector.

The certainty, the inevitable conclusion flew through his brain, setting him on fire.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

He was out there, hiding, but he couldn’t help getting involved when a case presented itself.

Sherlock Holmes was alive, and he would return.

Until then, he decided he would keep track on him as best as he could.

Naturally, people eventually noticed that he spent nights in front of the computer, wasn’t paying much attention to his work anymore (in most of the cases, the solution was obvious, so why bother?), that he was acting more and more impatient with his colleagues (why wouldn’t they believe him? Why couldn’t they see?) and after a few months, he was let go.

He would probably have used the word “fired” if he had still cared.

But Sherlock was alive, and that was what counted.

Somewhere during the months he still had a job, his wife left him. He didn’t feel it as he ought to have done, so it was most likely a good decision.

Once he could fully concentrate on finding Sherlock, he found people who believed him, people who had always believed in the consulting detective, which was more than he could say for himself.

He tried to open the eyes of others who had cared for Sherlock, and more importantly: people Sherlock had cared for.

He didn’t believe that the consulting detective would even look at him once he returned. He didn’t believe he would talk to him, or value his opinion more simply because he had refused to believe in the man’s death.

If he got someone else to believe, though –

He couldn’t approach Doctor Watson. He didn’t deserve it.

DI Lestrade, on the other hand –

He might have got the Tower house case wrong (how could he have arrested the sister? One only needed to compare the testimonies as they were given in the press to realize it must have been the butler), but he was a good police officer, and he was Sherlock’s friend.

Only he refused to believe him.

Anderson simply couldn’t understand him.

Didn’t he want his friend to be alive? Didn’t he want hope?

And not only hadn’t he believed him, but he had sown doubt into his mind too.

But the cases – no one but Sherlock could have –

He returned to his new flat, to find the unpaid bills on his kitchen table.

Since he had lost his job, he hadn’t earned any money. And that had been nearly one and a half years ago.

His savings had lasted until now, and his ex-wife helped him out now and then, but it was getting more and more difficult to get by.

Until the 17th of December, when he received a letter.

It wasn’t much.

In fact, it could barely be called a letter at all.

Nondescript paper. Only sixteen words.

_There is enough money in your bank account. You were right about the Tower House case._

Sixteen words he would cherish for the rest of his life.

The best gift he had ever received.

Sherlock wouldn’t have contacted him if he wanted to stay hidden.

Sherlock Holmes was alive. And he was coming back.


End file.
